


To Fight Sleeplessness For Him

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel can see that Feuilly is exhausted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Fight Sleeplessness For Him

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! I finally wrote a Feuilly/Bahorel fic! They're slowly becoming my favourite pairing.

Tomorrow is Bahorel’s day off, so he’s taking advantage of it already, still up at two AM hanging upside-down off the couch while he plays Left 4 Dead on expert mode and swearing up a storm. He’s stripped down to his jeans because that’s how you have to play video games like this—with as much of your masculinity showing as possible to counteract the screaming that will inevitably happen. The game is going surprisingly well despite the fact that he’s the only human player at the moment, and he celebrates his survival with a few deep pulls of beer from the bottle on the floor.

He lets out a girly screech when the door buzzer goes off just as a Smoker’s tongue lashes out and grabs him. He fumbles the controller, tries to get out of the Smoker’s grip as none of his AI teammates help him and there’s a Tank in the distance getting closer, screeches again, dies, and slams the start button to answer the door. The buzzer still hasn’t let up.

It’s late, and there’s no point in putting on shoes. Since the buzzer for the security door doesn’t work in the apartment, Bahorel has to actually walk downstairs and let people inside. Which is nice for when Grantaire shows up shit-faced and nearly brains himself just walking up the steps to the building, but it’s shitty when it’s two in the morning and he’s in the middle of a fucking video game. And when it’s two in the morning and the fucker is _still_ pressing the buzzer so the noise drills into his head. He’s mid-grumble about assholes who don’t understand common apartment building courtesy when he opens the door.

“Jesus fucking christ.” Feuilly is slumped against the wall, shoulder leaning on the buzzer, fast asleep, his red hair spiking up in a wild, stress-induced mess. Bahorel steps over and pokes him. Nothing. He shakes his shoulder.

Feuilly swats blindly at him with a groan. “Leave me alone, fuckface.”

“You’re sleeping on the doorbell, asshole.”

“Ngh. I’m tired. Go away.” Feuilly turns his face against the wall like it’s an indescribably comfortable pillow.

Bahorel stares at him. His ginger hair is backlit into fire by the porch light; it also throws the bags under his eyes into sharp relief. Bahorel sighs, steps forward and, after another growling sigh, lifts Feuilly into the air, picking the smaller man up like a child with one arm under his thighs and the other across his back. He turns back inside and kicks the door shut with his heel.

“Get your ass inside. You need to cut back on work. How did you even make it here?”

There’s no response. So Bahorel hefts him a little higher with a jerking motion and starts back upstairs. If Bahorel curls one hand around to brush Feuilly’s hair back from his face as he carries him up, no one will say anything. And if Feuilly nestles into the warmth of Bahorel’s bare chest with a sleepy sigh, neither will mention it.

There are priorities at two AM on an off-day, so Feuilly is set on the opposite end of the couch, a pillow shoved under his head and an afghan made of black and blue squares laid over him. The redhead buries his face in the corner of the couch and sighs. Bahorel flops back down on his spot and picks up the controller, resuming his game. He shoves his bare feet under Feuilly’s blanket, but the other man doesn’t budge. Rolling his eyes with something that _could_ be interpreted as affection, he turns the volume down and tries not to swear quite so loudly. Stupid, overworked ginger assholes need their sleep.

Feuilly wakes up to the feeling of being crushed by two hundred pounds of apparently anthropomorphized panther. The creepy dissonant L4D menu music echoing through the room isn’t helping his attempt to find dreamland again much, either. Bahorel has fallen asleep on top of him, and is snoring lightly in his ear. He elbows him sharply in the chest, but Bahorel barely even grunts. Rolling his eyes, he flops down again with a sigh, ready to give up, gaze drifting lazily around the room. The clock on the television reads ten-thirty.

“Fuck!” Feuilly elbows his personal prison again, with no results. With a frustrated growl, he twists his head back and bites down on Bahorel’s pulse point, the only area he can reach. Bahorel jerks awake and shoves him off the couch.

“Ow! Asshole!”

“I’m fucking late for work, Bahorel. It’s ten fucking thirty in the morning and work started at seven. Richard is going to kill me.” He scrambles up off the floor and commences running around like a decapitated chicken.

“Feuilly—”

Feuilly grabs a clean shirt from the basket on the kitchen table and yanks it on, trying to flatten down his bedhead with one hand. “I’m three hours late. That could cost me my fucking job. I already don’t make enough as it is.”

“Feuilly—”

He yanks on his shoes without his socks, then realizes he needs socks and kicks them off again, rummaging in the bottom of the basket for a pair of black socks that don’t have holes in the heels.

“I’m already working more hours than I should at my other job. I don’t want to have to work extra here, too.”

Bahorel grabs Feuilly’s wrist as he passes and yanks him onto the couch, pinning him there as he struggles and bucks.

“Listen to me, asshole. I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Fuck you, I have to leave.” Feuilly shoves his body upwards, nearly gaining purchase, but Bahorel pushes him down again and holds him there with an arm across his chest.

“No, you don’t. I called Richard on your cell phone this morning. Told him that you’d goddamn near collapsed getting home from work last night and that you’re practically working eight fucking days a week, if that were a possible thing. I said you’d be in much better shape to work and be a top notch employee if you were to have a day to rest. He said that was fine, and that he’d been a bit worried about you recently, since you seemed exhausted the last few days. I said damn right you look exhausted. He said he’d let you stay home today to get some R&R.”

“Seriously?” Feuilly’s voice has gone high with surprise. He relaxes under Bahorel’s body, and the arm pinning him down is removed.

“As a heart attack. Which you will have if you keep working the way you do. So now seems like a good time to catch up on the sleep you never fucking get.”

“But what about—” Bahorel growls and scoops Feuilly up again, this time throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold as he stalks down the hall and tosses him onto the bed. He sits on Feuilly’s legs, reaching behind him to undo his shoelaces for him and toss the shoes into the corner. Then he yanks at the collar of Feuilly’s shirt until the other man lifts his arms so he can pull that off as well.

“You are going to fucking sleep,” He shoves Feuilly onto his back and flops down next to him, stretching an arm across his torso to pin him there. “Whether you like it or not. I am going to hold you here until you pass out, from exhaustion or boredom, whichever comes first.”

“I don’t n—”

Bahorel shifts so half his body is on top of Feuilly, his face up against his ear, and presses one finger against his forehead so that he drops back down onto the pillow. “You need sleep. You are exhausted. You’re not fun when you’re tired. Go to sleep for me right now, and when you wake up we can go to that history museum you’re so goddamn obsessed with. Or something. I don’t care. Just pass the fuck out already.”

Bahorel is warm, and his weight is comforting but not restrictive, and his breath against Feuilly’s ear is calming and strangely gentle. “Fine,” he hears himself mumble as his eyes drift closed. He thinks he hears Bahorel growl “I fucking told you,” but he’s already mostly gone, so he can’t be sure.


End file.
